


Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee

by frak-all (or_ryn)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HP: EWE, Memory Alteration, Obliviation, hermione-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-04-27 04:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5033626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/or_ryn/pseuds/frak-all
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione takes issue with the newest Ministry-appointed Obliviator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_You remember too much,_  
_my mother said to me recently.  
_ _Why hold onto all that?_

_And I said,  
_ _Where can I put it down?_

— _Anne Carson, from "The Glass Essay"_

 

* * *

**Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee**

Chapter One

* * *

 

It was a wet, gray November afternoon in London, and the rain hadn't paused its steady marathon pace in over thirty-six hours. Five blocks from Victoria Station, unperturbed by the wind and the rain, a sullen-looking fat brown owl rapped its beak on the glass of an apartment window three stories off the ground. Inside, clad in only a navy sweatshirt and boxers despite the late hour, Harry Potter shuffled out of the the kitchen in his sock feet.

The owl rapped again. Harry stuttered to a stop in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, a ceramic plate stacked with cut up apples and cheese held limply in his left hand, a lidded plastic cup of milk in his right. He closed his eyes and cursed.

From her seat on the well-loved faded green couch, Hermione covered her face with the tattered ends of her overlarge white knit sweater and let out a low, frustrated breath.

The owl locked eyes with Harry and rapped another time. The noise wasn't so much of a tapping as it was an insistent, repetitive  _scritch, scritch_ on the cloudy glass windowpane, setting the hairs on the back of her neck on end.

A short silence followed. Objectively, Hermione knew it lasted less than a handful of seconds, but it felt much longer for its familiarity.

Another beat passed, and then: "I am  _so_  sorry, Hermione."

"I just — really, Harry?" Hermione said, the thin wool of her sweater partially muffling her words. "Again?"

She leaned back against the couch, her weight shifting the plush cushions and prompting a seemingly endless number of books and charts and scrolls of haphazardly stacked velum to tumble into her lap and over onto the floor. Her research fell onto the scraps of metal pooled around her feet. Miscellaneous spools of copper thread, hardy iron nails, and metal door hinges, once sprawled in a state of chaotic order, were now obscured by parchment.

Hermione peeked through her sleeves at the mess and groaned.

She allowed her head to plop against the back of the couch, her eyes once again covered by the sleeves of her sweater. "You  _said_ , Harry. You said before Ginny and I spoke with Andromeda last week. I confirmed it with you  _twice_."

Sprawled out on the rug by the fireplace playing with Hot Wheels racecars and miniature self-hovering Firebolts, the nearly three year-old Teddy Lupin giggled, then coughed. Wisps of wavy hair changed from deep auburn to sandy blond.

_Scritch, scritch._

Harry grimaced. Still clutching the plastic sippie cup of milk, he made an unconscious sweeping motion at his forehead, managing to brush the thick, overgrown fringe out of his eyes for a moment before it stubbornly resumed its place. "I'm not happy about it either, Hermione. I was looking forward to today, too, especially after all the unwelcome additions around the office. And Merlin knows I haven't been able to spend enough time with Teddy, but it's this new fucking —"

"Language!"

"— case. I can't—"

_Scritch, scritch._

Wincing, Hermione lowered her arms and looked around the living room, avoiding Harry's eyes. Scattered, disjointed sheets of parchment surrounded her chosen section of the living room like the remains of a particularly horrific crime scene. Her own neatly-written, well-researched notes mixed indiscriminately with archaic scrolls on tax law, the Wizengamot, inheritance rituals, and numerous other equally old parchments riddled with legalese and purposefully complex obfuscations. They were all so simple, so  _similar_  in their aims.

"Go on and open the window," she sighed, her eyes still fixed on the floor. "That owl isn't going to go away until you take the notice, so you might as well just do it and get the poor thing out of this rain."

Frowning, Harry moved to the window, setting the cup and plate on the wooden breakfast table with enough force that Hermione worried about the state of the porcelain. Pulling his wand out of his sweatshirt's front pocket, he moved it in a quick, fluid pattern, disassembling the thick layer of wards with practiced ease. Bill had set them up two years ago. Hermione had only occasionally tinkered with them since.

Once Harry had the message in hand and a bruising nip from the sullen owl, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and read. His eyebrows rose, and Hermione knew what that meant even before he paused midway through the letter to let out a sharp something that sounded suspiciously like a harshly whispered  _"fuck."_  After another not-so-gentle nip, Harry scratched out a quick answer on the notice and sent it back with the owl.

Hermione rose from the couch. Sliding the oversized sweater sleeves up her thin arms, she began to tidy the mess around her with sharp and efficient movements, allowing her anger to cut through the pressing weight of her tired muscles.

"Look, Hermione," Harry started, his cautious words well-practiced steps. "I know you had things you wanted to do today. And I know you don't like taking Teddy with you—"

"It's not a matter of me  _liking_  to take Teddy with me, Harry. Don't say it as if I hate spending time with him. I just can't, not with what I need to do today."

"But you  _can_. Andromeda said, remember? She took Tonks everywhere at Teddy's age."

Hermione bit her lip. And that wasn't quite the point, was it? But Hermione wasn't sure she wanted to argue this out again when he clearly didn't understand. Coffee only provided her with so much energy.

Her fingers ran through her short curls in rough, erratic movements, a nervous habit so old she couldn't pinpoint its origin. It was so easy to forget about her recent haircut, the one where she'd impulsively decided to chop off inches and years of thick brown hair in one go. The combing gesture, once familiar and now so foreign, suddenly made her feel like she'd just walked up to the top of a staircase, sure there there was another stair left, and instead discovered with a sickening, stuttering moment of emptiness that there wasn't.

"Fine. It's that I  _shouldn't_ ," she said less quickly than she should have, her eyes flitting to the oblivious toddler playing by the fireplace. "He's a Metamorphmagi, in case you've forgotten, not to mention a two-and-a-half year-old with a cold, which is enough to handle to begin with, and I have to go by the library before dropping off my notes at Kingsley's office, register for a stop at UCL, go to the hardware store, Tesco, and maybe M&S, and — and —" she paused, flustered, finally stopping for a breath. "Half of my errands are in Muggle neighborhoods. It's irresponsible for me to take him."

Harry made a helpless gesture with his hands. "Well, Ginny's still in France with the Harpies, and I can't just take a toddler into Auror headquarters with me."

She set her jaw, locked eyes with him, and didn't respond.

"I guess I can always floo Mrs. Weasley…?" he trailed off, scratching his head slowly.

Hermione exhaled. "No," she said, "It's fine. I'll figure something out."

"Oh, Hermione, I seriously owe you," Harry said, crossing the room to lift a distracted Teddy in a hug. "If anything goes wrong, which it won't, by the way — not after last time, because we've learned about the hat — you have Tilly. She said to send her a Patronus direct next time. Not that there will  _be_ a next time, mind you."

"I know that."

"I don't understand why you insist, though," Harry continued, giving her a look. "You really are the most competent witch I know."

"Yes, well." Hermione picked up a stack of papers and waved her free hand. "Kingsley needs this research on the Wizengamot by close of day. Where are you going? Should I even try to wait?"

"You know I can't say, however much I might want to. Man, this would've been so much easier if... I'll be back as soon as I can," Harry said, placing Teddy back down on the rug. "But no, don't wait."

Standing still, she allowed Harry to surround her in a quick, tight hug and press a kiss to her forehead. "You're the best, Hermione. I can always count on you."

* * *

"Need any help, miss?"

"Hmm?" Hermione responded absently, the fingers of her right hand gently skimming along a row of brass doorhinges displayed at the hardware store, checking the smooth, cool metal for signs of magical residue. It took awhile for the words to register. "Oh, no. I'm fine, thanks. Just browsing."

The teenage assistant, a very tall sixteen or seventeen year-old boy with light brown skin and thick dark hair gave a sweet smile that went beyond obligatory courtesy. "Well, if you think of anything, miss, please let me know. I'll be happy to help."

Hermione forced the corners of her mouth upwards into a sluggish smile. She desperately wanted a coffee, but she didn't think the he could help her with that. Manners were manners, though. "Thanks," she said, craning her neck up to look him in the eye. "I'll keep that in mind."

The younger kid nodded, but instead of walking back to the front of the store, he lingered, his eyes gravitating to the toddler resting on Hermione's hip. The little of Teddy's face that showed through layers of winter clothing was unapologetically dirty. Snot streamed down his sniffly red nose. Crusty bits were lodged in the corners of his eyes. His lips were dry and cracked, and though Hermione loved him fiercely, she wondered again how anyone could ever want such a little terror of their very own.

She knew there must be something wrong with her, though, because the sight of Teddy — dirty and sickly and gross though he was — made the boy's face soften.

"Aw, what a little darling."

"... Thanks," Hermione responded, awkwardly cocking the hip Teddy rested on. The rubber of her gray wellies rubbed against her feet, chafing her heels each time she shifted her weight. She could've forgone the cumbersome shoes and cast a few household warming and water-repellant charms on her feet, but that would've been entirely too conspicuous in this neighborhood. No Londoner worth their salt would go outside without proper rain boots and outerwear in weather like this, so Hermione and Teddy dressed the part as well. She just wished Harry had remembered to do the washing so she could have worn some appropriate socks.

The teenager reached out to touch Teddy. What his aims were, Hermione didn't know —  _pet him, maybe?_  — but she jerked Teddy out of reach. The teenager's hand lingered in the air where Teddy had been seconds ago, his fingers outstretched. A shocked expression crossed his face before he quickly covered it with a sheepish smile.

After moving her body so that she shielded Teddy from view, she checked to make sure all of his hair remained concealed underneath his tiny black cap. She breathed a sigh of relief when she discovered the hat was indeed still there. She'd put a sticking charm on it not thirty minutes ago, but one could never be too careful. The toddler in question gripped the wool of her sweater tightly with his stubby little fingers.

"Sorry," she said in a clipped voice that didn't sound very apologetic at all. "He's contagious."

At that moment, as if on cue, Teddy sneezed, then grinned, snot bubbling out of his nose.

The clerk laughed, his attention focused on Teddy, and anxiety simmered under Hermione's skin as she wiped Teddy's nose with the handkerchief in her pocket. Plucking a brass hinge from the shelf at random, she dropped it in the boy's still outstretched hand. His hand dropped a few inches at the heft of it.

"I'd like this one, please."

He stared at the metal object strangely for a few moments. "Yeah, uh, no problem, miss. Come up front. I'll ring you up."

She hadn't had a chance to check it over properly, so there was a possibility she would have to come back and get another one, but right now she really, really didn't care. She handed over a few notes, declined his offer of a plastic bag, and exited the store.

Immediately, a chilly, wet gust of air buffeted her overburdened frame, the cold cutting through to her skin like a curse. The freezing rain hadn't let up, it seemed. With winter in London, there was the possibility it never would.

Hermione huddled under the overhang of the store, a toddler in one hand, a ludicrously heavy metal doorhinge in the other, and her saving grace, an umbrella, stuck in her altogether too small beaded handbag.

She weighed her options.

After a second, she lowered Teddy to the ground gently and pulled out her bag. But no, she couldn't put the hinge there; that would defeat the point. As she struggled to fish out an empty bag without the use of her wand and without stuffing her hand more than wrist-deep inside, a mangy orange cat with a pinched face walked out from the covered alley next to Blake's Hardware. The hideous wiry beast was skinny and matted and looked entirely too much like Crookshanks for comfort.

Oh, and that was a gift from the universe she didn't need right now. She exhaled deeply. As the cat strutted by, careful to avoid the rain, it raised its tail and gave her a haughtily dismissive look.

_Yes, definitely like Crookshanks._

Naturally, Teddy lunged after it.

She managed to pick Teddy up before his little legs carried him far, pinprick raindrops striking her neck and hands. Luckily for her, his cold made him too tired to walk fast or struggle much. It didn't stop him from whining, though. Or crying.

"Hush now, Teddy," she whispered, pleading, as she pulled him back under the overhang, frustrated at her absolute inability to make him cooperate. She rocked him back and forth, his back awkwardly pressed against her front and his limbs kicking and jerking out in all directions in a weak but effective protest.

She needed to calm him down before even thinking about going into Tesco. She just didn't have the slightest as to how to do that.

Mrs. Weasley would never have had this problem.

"Hey! Miss!"

Hermione whirled around. The gangly clerk from the store approached her with quick, determined steps, a wide black umbrella in his hand. Hermione mentally chided herself and felt frustrated exasperation seep into her pores.  _Of course._   _That's_   _where the umbrella was._  She couldn't have very well put it in her tiny beaded bag like normal, now could she?

Teddy chose that moment to give her stomach a good kick with his red rubber boots, but after that his crying calmed down to manageable sniffles. Relieved, she put what she hoped looked like a comforting hand on the top of his head, firmly grasping his hat, and waited for the clerk to approach.

"You forgot your — Jesus  _Christ_ ," the teenager paused, his eyes widening. He looked confused and curious and more than a little horrified. "What's wrong with his  _face_?"

_Oh. Oh no._

Hermione closed her eyes and held her breath. She didn't want to look down at Teddy. She really, really didn't.

She steeled herself and looked.

His hair was concealed underneath the beanie. His lips were still dry and cracked, his eyes still crusty. His nose, though. His nose was feline. There was no other way to put it. Pinched and furry, it looked exactly like the stray cat that'd just passed them. Like Crookshanks.

The toddler smiled at her, and his whiskers twitched.

"Oh, Teddy," Hermione whispered, her voice shaky. "You learned a new trick."

* * *

The sodden alley stank of garbage and piss and something she'd rather not name. After fifteen minutes of waiting, Hermione was convinced that all the  _Scourgify's_  in the world wouldn't remove the pungent smell. Teddy hadn't liked it at all, that was for sure.

After moving the Stupefied hardware store employee into the alleyway, casting Muggle-repelling, Notice Me Not charms, and a partial shield charm to keep them out of the immediate rainfall, not to mention sending out her translucent Patronus with a message to Tilly, Hermione slumped to the ground. The ridges of her spine pressed against the cold, grimy brick wall, and she grimaced.

She pulled out a book from her bag. What else was there to do? Holding it loosely in her gloved hands, she tried not to think about the poor kid sprawled out unconscious on the wet asphalt, pitifully wedged between the filthy green dumpster and the wall.

But Hermione was never very good at not looking.

She'd covered the boy with a well-worn blue blanket, dried, warmed, and softened the ground underneath him with a spell — quick work; seconds, really — but it didn't do much to make her feel better. She wondered what kind of person she'd be if it did.

Five minutes passed. Then another five.

Teddy complained.

The rain continued.

She tried her best to distract Teddy with a copy of  _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them: An Illustrated Guide for the Young Magizoologist._ After a minor adjustment period, he took to that pretty well. Content to just flip through the pages and look at the pictures, Teddy lingered over his favorite magical animals, drawing clumsy fingers overtop illustrated Nifflers and Hippogriffs and Kneazles, making the noises he associated with each animal, then glancing up at her for approval. His catlike features had faded away some time ago, but when she bent to look down at him or kiss his forehead, she still found her eyes gravitating to the center of his face.

Hermione stared blankly at the book she'd been working through this week, an old text on metal-extinguishing magics. What good would it really do her, though, when things like this kept happening?

Her eyes wandered, looking and not looking at the boy to her right.

Tilly should have been here by now. The witch may have been well over a hundred, but she was great at her job and always responded within minutes. The hardware store wasn't very big. The other employees were bound to have missed the helpful, gawky teenager by now. There was no way to explain where he'd gone in a way his manager would approve of, and every chance of him getting fired.

Her stomach churned at the thought as she banished away another stream of water flowing from the main road into alley.

_It was necessary. It was necessary. It had to be done._

She closed her eyes.

The gunpop of apparition sounded, jerking Hermione out of her stupor, and she jumped to her feet. Her wand was out and drawn in microseconds. She swallowed, and a lump of air pushed its way down her throat. Her hands shook. She couldn't get them to quiet on their own, so she brushed them against the rough denim of her jeans and gave a hollow, self-deprecating laugh.

_God,_ she thought, _it needs to stop feeling like this._

"Took you long enough, Tilly."

She looked up. And no, that wasn't right.

Hermione couldn't see well, her vision obscured by stormy shadows and encroaching doubt, but she  _could_  see that whoever had just apparated into the alleyway was definitely not the diminutive Tilly Toke, current Head of the Department of Magical Catastrophes.

"Hello?" Hermione squinted, trying to make out who exactly it was.  _A man_ , she thought,  _someone tall_.

"Hello?" she called again, louder this time. "Bill, that you?"

The man straightened his shoulders. He muttered something lowly, then advanced toward her and into the light.

It was three years ago again.

" _Malfoy?_ " Hermione asked, mouth gaping.

Scenarios and memories flew through her head so rapidly that all Hermione could catch were a barrage of broken flashes and figments.

If she wasn't careful, she could slip, she knew that — except it wasn't slipping so much as being pulled.

Memories, oceans, riptides reached out with filthy, eager fingers to drag her under, to cover her with water so cold and so black that no matter how strong she kicked and turned and cut with her arms, she couldn't see, couldn't move anywhere but down, couldn't even  _breathe_  because that was just another way for the water to get in, to claw through her mouth and nose and eyes and mind —

Hermione took a deep, purposeful breath. Her lungs inflated with frigid November air. It took active, conscious thought.

She exhaled.

She hadn't seen him since the battle, that was all. Last she'd heard, he was on house arrest with his mother, confined within his godforsaken hellhole of a home for an undetermined period. Hermione'd been content to let him rot there, assuming "undetermined period" was just Ministry-speak for forever.

Acting like he hadn't seen or heard or been affected by her presence at all, Draco Malfoy continued walking forward with a stiff back and a pasty face so rigidly neutral it bordered on blank.

Except he wasn't walking toward her, not exactly.

Hermione stepped forward. "Malfoy, stop," she said, emphasizing her words with a thrust of her wand.

Malfoy paused.

Her eyes narrowed and lips thinned. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

Malfoy regarded her with cold distance. His grey eyes swept from the bottom of her cheap Primark wellies to the four inches of curly hair practically standing straight off of her head. Though his mask never slipped, his haughty gaze clearly said she was just as he remembered.

_Mudblood_.

"I'm trying to get to the muggle, Granger. So if you please," his said, his phrasing polite and intention anything but.

The store clerk? She looked at the gangly boy lying on the ground, his chest slowly rising and falling underneath her old blue blanket.

No. That was unacceptable.

"Are you kidding? In what world do you think I'm going to let a  _Death Eater_  come at a helpless kid with his wand drawn?"

Draco scowled, his wand arm twitching at his side. He opened his mouth and then closed it.

"Don't even think about it, Malfoy," she said. Her grip on her wand was so tight she thought she felt the wood strain. "I'm serious. You're not touching him."

He ignored her, which wasn't really a surprise. His eyes didn't roll, his face didn't move, but it might as well have. Hermione swore she could feel the infinitesimal shift in his body as he rocked over and forward and onto his toes.

What happened next wasn't a decision.

Her wand pointed upward, then slashed down in an arc of light, her wrist moving in an intricate twisting pattern. This time, her hands didn't shake in the slightest.

_Protego Maxima_.  _Fianto Duri_.  _Repello Inimicum_. All thought in quick succession, all cast nonverbally.

They were etched in her, those protective charms, and they flowed from the tip of her wand like muscle memory, forming a solid, seamless barrier. She felt sweat creep down the back of her neck, and her legs ached from where she'd unconsciously locked her knees. But blueish white light flared around the kid and Teddy too, and satisfaction at her casting eased some of the tension inside her. The shield was there, and it was strong. Hermione looked at Malfoy's face — strained, like something between a sneer and a grimace — and had no doubt of that.

He closed his eyes. "I don't actually have to physically  _touch_  the muggles, you know."

She looked at him, disgusted, and said nothing.

"Take down your wards."

"You need to leave."

"Granger, it's not like you to be purposefully obtuse. Take down your wards. I have to do this."

A wellspring of shame rose in her gut, the liquid emotion a familiar flood.

"Not on your life."

A muscle throbbed where he clenched his jaw. He was maybe two meters away from her at this point. "That's a bit excessive, don't you think?"

"You need to leave now, Malfoy, before I summon the Ministry. I won't tell you again."

"The Ministry?" he choked, incredulous, his words colored with dark amusement. "Oh, this is great. You mean to tell me Potter didn't say?"

"Harry has nothing to do with this. I'm running out of patience."

But he continued, nearly within armsreach now. Hermione extended her wand until it hung perpendicular to his sternum. He outwardly seemed unperturbed at the threat — no, the  _promise_  — but she noted his jaw was still tightly clenched, and he was no longer only loosely holding his wand.

He looked at her again —  _examined_  her.

"I'm really going to have to spell it out for you, aren't I?" he asked. "You called my department. In essence, Granger,  _you_ called _me._ I'm a Ministry Obliviator."

She didn't blink. "You're lying," she said.

He scoffed. "If only I were. Now, you are free to learn how to properly cast the Obliviate charm and pass the certification exam yourself like every other Wizarding citizen," he said. The words pouring from his mouth were dispassionate and level, but condescension rolled off him in waves. "However, until you do, your incompetence is on me. So I would very much appreciate it if you lowered your wand so we can go about this case in a  _civilized_ —"

"Fuck off," Hermione spat, tightening her grip on her wand. "Tilly is our Obliviator."

"Obliviator Toke is in St. Mungo's," Malfoy said, eyes flashing. "I'm in charge of her usual cases while she's on leave."

"I —" She stopped as his words registered. But then Malfoy swaggered forward, and her anger boiled over again. He was  _lying._ He was.

"I don't believe you. Stop. Malfoy, I said  _stop!_ "

Malfoy walked to the side, skirting around her wand like it was an inconveniently placed piece of furniture in an overcrowded room. The space between Malfoy and the unconscious teenager dwindled rapidly as he moved about, surveying the entirety of her blue dome, looking like he was about to have a go at it.

Her spells were good. She knew they were. But it had been awhile since she'd cast them, and they weren't grounded on anything. It was possible Malfoy could take them down. And there were spells he could cast, dark spells, that would cut right through the barrier.

Hermione leapt in front of him.

She could feel her body practically vibrating with energy, and apparently Malfoy could feel something too, because he jerked back at her sudden appearance, then leaned back further still. At six feet, he was nearly a head taller than her. Her muscles were tensed, her heart thumped wildly in her chest, and she felt hyperaware in a way she hadn't in ages, conscious of the icy wind rustling through her hair, the soft scratch of wool against her skin, and the minutia of the clean-shaven man before her. Her magic coursed through her. She looked him straight in his grey eyes, noting how quickly his apathetic mask slipped, crashed, then shattered altogether. She raised a challenging brow.

He didn't like that very much.

"I'm not going to  _touch_  the blasted muggle, you twit," Malfoy said, glaring down at her, leaning forward this time, seemingly forsaking control altogether. From this close, she could see the past few years had been kind to him in many respects — his features were much less angular, his skin less sallow and sunken — but Christ, when he spoke like that, his entire face twisted. "Get out of my way."

"No." Her eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you for a second."

Furious and frustrated and damn near apoplectic, Malfoy looked like he was torn between counting to ten and tearing her in half. It was an interesting thing, watching his composure break so completely, not unsimilar to Teddy in a tantrum.

"Granger, why else would I be here? Just get out of my way, you —" He very visibly bit back a curse. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and made a last ditch effort to regain the pieces of his stoic front. With agonizing condescension, he started to speak. "Holding up this process is a flagrant violation to the International Statute of Secrecy. If you continue to —"

"I'm not moving."

"Merlin, Granger, if it makes you so fucking upset, I'd suggest not doing whatever the hell you did to require this _Ministry-mandated_  obliviation in the first place," he growled. "Now move."

Hermione glared at him. From inside the barrier, Teddy started to cry.

" _Move,_ " Malfoy said. He leaned over her now, his body mere inches from her own. His white blond hair was slicked back with painstaking precision, and his tall frame had filled out considerably since she'd last seen the bony, pointy thing. This close, she could feel the magic roll off his body, could feel it crawl over the surface of her skin, unwanted and unwelcome. The hair on the nape of her neck stood on edge at the physical intimidation, but she held her ground.

Somehow, impossibly, she leaned in closer. "No."

"If you keep this up, I don't care how close you are to Potter, I  _will_  summon the Aurors, and they  _will_  fine you accordingly. Now get out of my way."

She glared at him instead, feeling an intoxicating rage going back years.

Malfoy exhaled through his nose. "Granger, the Aurors  _will_  come."

"Let them," Hermione hissed. "Harry will be down here in a  _second_  — "

"You clearly have no clue what's going on —"

"— and you'll be the one —"

"— you blasted know-it-all, because if you did you'd know —"

"— explaining how you got ten feet within —"

"I fucking  _work_  for Potter!" he yelled, throwing up his hands and taking a step back. "Damn you to hell, you  _stupid,_ stubborn girl." He thrust his right hand inside the inner left pocket of his robes, nearly ripping the seam of the fabric. A beat later, something small and compact was flung at her chest.

It bounced off her breastbone, making a hollow, vibrating sound only she could hear, before falling to a puddle at her feet.

She didn't drop her gaze. She stared and stared as his words caught up to her.

_No._

"My identification," he said, as she wordlessly summoned the object to her hands. He was electric and terrifying, and she could hardly register him through the thrumming in her ears. "Not that it fucking matters."

Hermione's thin fingers closed around the damp black bifold I.D. in her hands. She looked down and scrutinized it, but distantly, as if she was looking through a pensieve. The fingertips of her right hand unfolded the leather and ghosted overtop his credentials. The embossing, the signature, the pulsing magical seal... it was official. He hadn't been lying. Draco Malfoy was a Ministry-appointed Obliviator.

Her world reeled.

The spell faltered.

Wide-eyed, she took a step back and covered her mouth with her hand, as if to hold in a soundless cry. There was no way the Ministry of Magic would let a known Muggle-hating, convicted Death Eater become an Obliviator.

Hermione shook her head, hand still over her mouth.

_No, of course they would._

The revelation hit her like a punch to the diaphragm, and all that energy she'd built up didn't just crash, it vanished altogether, leaving her hollow and dizzy.

When she looked up, it was over. In a span of seconds, Malfoy had pushed his way through the faltering shield and ruthlessly, efficiently wiped and reorganized the order of things in the poor boy's head.

"It's done, Granger," he said, crouching almost comically far from the kid, carefully avoiding even the possibility of physical contact. "The Muggle won't remember ever meeting you. It'll be just like you never existed at all." Malfoy stood, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from his black robes. Teddy screamed, and Malfoy grimaced. "If I could only be so lucky."

Oh god. This wasn't happening. Her mind was spinning and things were tangling and  _this_   _wasn't right_.

A hairsbreadth from frantic, she focused on Malfoy. "Who hired you? Who—"

"Look, Granger," he said with an acerbic tone. In one lithe motion he stalked forward, taller than she'd seen moments ago. He narrowed his eyes. "I don't have time for this shit—"

"But how—"

"No. Your precious Potter can put up with your hysterics. Some of us have jobs to do." And with that, he plucked his I.D. out of her fingers, turned, and apparated on the spot.  


* * *


	2. Chapter 2

_Isn't it quick to say. And isn't it long to live._

\- Jean Rhys,  _Wide Sargasso Sea_

* * *

"Oh, hello again, Miss Granger. May I take a message for —  _Miss Granger?_ "

Kingsley's skinny secretary stood from his desk, holding out a hand, turning to follow her as she strode past him. "Miss Granger, we've talked about this, you can't just go in there!"

Hermione stopped inches from Kingsley's door. It was shut, but there was a slight illuminated crack between the door and the rug on the floor.

His lights were still on, so she was going inside.

She knocked, a heavy  _one-two-three_ , then immediately moved a determined hand to the doorknob, twisted, and pushed. If the door hadn't been so heavy, it would have slammed against the wall.

Imposing yet still strangely out of place, Kingsley stood behind an overbearing oak desk, sorting the remnants of files into a leather briefcase, apparently on his way out to some meeting or another.

How many ministers had stood in the exact same spot, behind that exact same desk?

Hermione could imagine the centuries of posturing that went on behind the desk. The machinations and intimidations and political games. Despite how focused she was on her anger, those thoughts and images flitted across her mind, making her stomach turn.

Or maybe the bile churning in her stomach and burning up the back of her throat was due to Malfoy being hired —  _paid_  — to ravage the minds of Muggles.

Kingsley glanced at her briefly, then looked back down at the papers he was in the process of packing up.

"I haven't had time to read your notes yet, Hermione," he said with a slight hint of annoyance as he went about his task, his fingers nimbly sorting through the office correspondence, earmarking a stack of letters and vanishing others into filing cabinets.

_That's because I haven't given them to you._

After a second, Kingsley caught up with the situation, and his hands paused. He lifted his head and gave her a scrutinizing look, taking in her tensed shoulders, lifted chin, and fierce expression. "What's wrong?" he asked, the heavy timber of his voice filling the empty room.

Hermione clenched her fists. "Someone has contracted Draco Malfoy to Obliviate Muggles," she said, expelling the words with more vehemence than she intended.

Kingsley shook his head, putting his correspondence to the side and sitting down carefully, cobalt blue robes fanning out around him. He gestured to one of the high-backed black armchairs in front of his desk. "Why don't you take a seat."

Hermione clenched her fists harder, feeling her fingernails bite into her palm. "I'm fine standing, Kingsley, thank you. Did you not hear what I said?"

He tilted his head to the side, noncommittal, and waved at her to continue.

Hermione took a deep breath. "There is a serious problem with The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. The Obliviation Department in particular."

Kingsley leaned forward. "Is Teddy okay?"

"What? Yes, he's fine. He's with — it doesn't matter. That's not why I'm here," she said, and paused to look at him. Really look at him. His face had changed over the course of their short exchange, like he'd slowly packed away pieces of his personality as she'd been talking. She'd seen that exact guarded expression on the front page of the  _The Daily Prophet_  more times than she could count. Why would he...?

A deflection. It was a deflection.

"You know why I'm here," she said slowly, feeling the truth of the words ooze in her mouth, trickle down the back of her throat, and settle heavy in her stomach.

She didn't want to believe it.

She didn't want to believe it at all, but she'd already been disillusioned once today, and the necessary connections formed quickly.

"You knew."

"I did," he said, face stoic and voice level. "I hired him."

"You did  _what_?" Hermione gaped, stung. "Kingsley, after everything you've helped me do, you —?"

"Offered Mr. Malfoy employment. And he accepted my terms," Kingsley said levelly before frowning. "I trusted Harry to keep this matter private."

"Harry didn't tell me  _anything_ ," Hermione protested.

"No?"

"No, he didn't. Don't act surprised," she said. "He knows me, and he knows that I wouldn't — that I  _won't_ stand for it. It's wrong, Kingsley."

Kingsley leaned back in his chair, drawing his hands off his desk and letting them fall to the armrests. "I know this isn't a common occurrence, but you don't know what you're talking about here, Hermione. I did what was necessary."

"Necessary?" Hermione's arms flew up. "Kingsley, listen to yourself! You hired a  _Death Eater_  to obliviate  _Muggles_. There's no excuse for that!"

"It's not that simple, Hermione. Mr. Malfoy's situation is unique."

Again, she gaped.  _Of course_ it was that simple. There were some things you _just didn't do_.

How could he not see that?

She wanted to yell at him, scream at him, until he realized how much of an idiot he was being, until he snapped back to reality and understood what she so easily did.

This was the Minister of Magic, this was her friend, and he was acting like — like the war never happened.

"There is no such thing as a special case. Not for him. Not for this. He's a  _marked_  Death Eater, Kingsley! He should  _never_ be allowed to touch, control, or-or do  _anything_  to the mind of an innocent person. He hates me. He hates Muggleborns. How do you think he feels about Muggles?"

Breathing hard, she met Kingsley's eyes. Large and brown, they were wide with sympathy. With pity.

She nearly spat.

He didn't get it. And he wouldn't get it, like Ron hadn't, because the war had never been about him. It was nearly three years later and he still didn't have a clue, and perhaps that meant he wouldn't ever.

No, things would continue on as they had, and Kingsley would sit behind the Minister's desk and go to meetings and write letters and stare at her with  _pity_  in his eyes while he stood by his decision to hire _Malfoy_.

He was sad to see her upset, but that was it.

Her fingers curled around the ends of her sweater, nails pushing through the wool and into her palm.

But she wasn't finished here.

"How could you  _possibly_  trust Malfoy with that kind of responsibility?" she asked. "I need to understand."

Kingsley frowned. Whether he was frowning at her or the situation, she couldn't tell.

"We didn't have much of a choice, Hermione. And we still don't, to tell you the truth. After two wars, we only had four members on the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad proficient enough in Legilimency to attain an International Obliviator's license. That makes  _four_  qualified Obliviators for the whole of magical Britain."

"And?"

"And we needed numbers," he said. "Legilimency isn't taught in a normal curriculum, and it's not something you can learn from reading a book; you need a natural inclination paired with an abundance of one-on-one training. Mr. Malfoy was already trained, and he certainly has the natural inclination. We offered to let him serve out the remainder of his five-year house arrest sentence as an Obliviator, and he accepted."

"One more isn't much of a number," Hermione said, remembering Malfoy's piercing, probing grey eyes with a swiftly sinking feeling. "If he's a Legilimens, he's an Occlumens. You have no idea what he could be hiding from you."

"We've taken care of that," Kingsley said firmly. "There's no way he's misbehaving."

She nearly laughed. Misbehaving _?_  As if this was some childish  _romp_?

She put her hands on her hips. "Train someone else."

Kingsley's eyes flared. "You're volunteering for the job then?"

She took a sharp intake of breath, and Kingsley shook his head, looking momentarily shamefaced. He didn't apologize, though.

Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose and began to speak. "With all you've done, it's easy to forget how young you are. You really have no conception of how small we are, do you?" he asked, pausing to look at her directly, to let the weight of his words sink in. "How many wizards do you think we have, Hermione?"

She saw his steady, expectant look and set her jaw. Kingsley had been a Gryffindor, too, though, and he waited her out.

Finally, she shifted her weight and let out the breath she'd been holding. "I don't know," she replied, sounding petulant even to her own ears.

"Not enough."

Hermione could practically hear the period at the end of his statement.

She raised her chin. There was authority, and then there was what was  _right_. She knew that now.

"That's not an answer or an excuse. There's always another way."

"Like what?" he asked. "Really, Hermione, I'm interested. Tell me how to do my job."

His sarcasm stung, but she threw up her hands. "Hire people from outside — from India, America, France — wherever! Put out an ad in  _The Daily Prophet_ , offer tax incentives, train people! Don't be so bloody proud. I can think of a hundred different scenarios that would be better than what we have," she said. "What  _you_  sanctioned."

"Stop acting like a child, Hermione, and think. The war was expensive. We didn't just lose lives, we lost property. Infrastructure.  _Money_. Who do you think funded the Ministry before we locked them away?"

"Yes, well, can't you just —"

"No, we can't. We've already taken thousands upon thousands of Galleons from the Malfoys in reparations. And the Flints, Parkinsons, Goyles, and anyone else we can even loosely tie to the Death Eaters," Kingsley said, starting to look angry in earnest. "But there's a limit to what we can take, a limit to what we can prove, and there are rules we have to follow. You know as well as I do that the law is on their side, and we don't have enough money to hire Obliviators from the outside."

"Then  _change_  the rules—"

"Hermione, no," Kingsley said, cutting her off firmly, sounding every bit the Minister of Magic now. "I trust your opinion, I value our personal relationship, and I appreciate everything you have done and will continue to do to help the Ministry, but my decision has been made. Despite what this conversation may have led you to believe, this matter is not open for discussion."

Smoldering with indignation, Hermione turned away, but, to her immortal mortification, she felt her eyes welling. Seconds pooled as she fought to blink back the encroaching tears.

She shook her head, short brown curls swaying, and looked back to him.

Kingsley had returned to packing up his work, likely in a polite attempt to allow Hermione the time to collect herself, but the ease of the everyday task struck her. Deflated her, really. Even as she grasped for the edges of her anger, gravity seemed to take on a larger presence in the room. The solid weight of things — her sweater, her bag, the hair on her head, the skin on her bones — was all heavier than it had been moments ago.

Kingsley continued to file his papers away. The pile on his desk seemed never-ending. Whether that was due to a spell or bureaucracy or both, she couldn't tell.

"Have you seen Harry?" she asked finally, reaching.

Kingsley didn't look up. "He's not in his office?"

"No, he's not. Do you know where he is?"

Kinglsey glanced at her then. "You know I couldn't tell you even if I did."

Their eyes met for a long, drawn out period, and then there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Kingsley called, glancing over her shoulder

Hermione continued to frown at him. Apparently their conversation really was over. If one could call what had just transpired in this room a conversation, that is.

Behind her, a tall, skinny redhead opened the door and strode into the room, coming to a stop a few feet from her side. He wore slightly threadbare but immaculately pressed burgundy wizarding robes and wielded a large clipboard with comical seriousness. A Quick-Quotes Quill hovered in the air next to him.

"Hello, Percy."

"Good afternoon, Minister," Percy answered, pushing wireframe glasses up the bridge of his freckled nose. At Kingsley's answering nod, Percy looked over to her and smiled kindly, if awkwardly. "Hello to you, too, Hermione. It's nice to see you."

Hermione inclined her head, wincing. "It's nice to see you, too, Percy."

Just then, emerald green flame erupted in a bright, soundless burst in the fireplace behind Kingsley. Looking like he wanted to groan, Kingsley pulled out the ludicrously large stack of parchment he'd just finished packing into his briefcase and set it none-too-gently back on his desk, apparently giving up all hope of making it to his next meeting. "One moment, please, Percy," he said tightly, sounding strangled.

"Oh, yes, yes. Of course, Minister Shacklebolt," Percy replied as Kingsley turned to the floo call. A quick  _mufflato_  kept her from hearing what was said next, but she could see the red, animated face of John Dawlish, the current Head of the Auror Department, talking at a rapid pace.

"You know," Percy began, but must not have felt he had her full attention, because he cleared his throat, waited until she turned to face him, and started again in a polite whisper. "You know, Hermione. Well, um, yes," he said, but stopped for a second now that he did have her attention, cheeks a bit pink. "I haven't gotten a proper chance to say anything what with just catching glimpses of you these last few months, but now, I really must —"

Hermione nearly winced, steeling herself. He wasn't about to talk about  _that_  now, was he?

Percy pushed through, posture stilted but words warm. "I really must say how unfortunate it is you haven't been able to make family dinner. Well, I know you see Bill and Ginny every so often, but as a whole, we don't see you around as much, and the entire family misses you. Even Audrey was saying something last week about having you come round."

Hermione smiled weakly and found herself backing toward the door, nearly tripping as her heel clipped the leg of one of Kingsley's black armchairs.

"I miss you, too, Percy. And I'd love to see Audrey, especially before the baby comes. But, look, I really need to go find Harry before he leaves for the day. Can you let Kingsley know I'll write him? And I'll — I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

She continued backing up, and Percy nodded and smiled sadly and looked at her, until she turned around and left.

* * *

Quarter til eight, Hermione heard footsteps out in the hallway corridor. The sound echoed quietly as the footsteps grew nearer.

Someone fumbled with the doorknob. "I've got Thai!" she heard.

That was Harry, then. Hermione's pen underlined the sentence she just read with short, jabbing strokes. Then she underlined it again.

Their doorknob turned, and the door began to open, only to stop abruptly short by the jerking wrench of the door chain pulling taut.

" _Damn!"_

That was Harry, too.

From the couch, Hermione kept reading, resolutely ignoring her dunderhead of a roommate as she poured over the scroll in her hands. There was a chance there was something she could use here. She knew it. There had to be.

"Hermione," Harry called from behind the door, his voice rising at the end of her name in a not-question question.

Hermione pursed her lips and underlined another sentence.

Harry knew that chain, and he had to have some idea what it meant that it was latched. Each seemingly simple loop of iron was carved with intricate, interweaving runes. The rune story spelled the iron against magic of all kind, from  _Alohomoras_  to  _Wingardium Leviosas_. But more than that, the iron sucked up concentrated magical spells like quicksand. Harry was well aware the chain would absorb any incantations he cast, the power from them funneled directly into the wards surrounding the house, strengthening them. He'd tested the chain out for Hermione after she created it and again right before she put them up, and it had leeched an incredible amount of power from him — far, far more than it should have — both times before he'd conceded defeat. Infuriating, bull-headed boy.

"Hermione! Hermione, are you in there? Please come undo the latch. I want to see Teddy before we put him to bed."

Hermione stood on unsteady legs and walked to the door, parchment still in hand. She leaned against the beige wall next to the doorway, crossing her feet at the ankle. The rubber of her rainboots squeaked on the wooden floor.

"Hermione?" he asked. After a moment, he spoke again. "Hermione, what's wrong? Is this about this afternoon? Look, I'm sorry. Dawlish had promised me I'd have the day off. I didn't know. I'm as upset as you about it. Maybe more."

She scoffed. That was likely.

Wordlessly, she thrust the near-white parchment she'd been scrutinizing moments and minutes and hours before through crack in the doorway. Harry took it hesitantly.

Moments later, he cursed.

Hermione clenched her teeth. Well, he was quick to read the document, wasn't he? Apparently, a few of the paper's key words, like  _Obliviation_  and  _immunity_  and  _Draco_   _fucking_   _Malfoy,_  jumped out at him.

Hermione heard a loud  _thonk_  as what was presumably Harry's head thudded against the wooden door.

"How'd you get this?" he asked, his voice muffled.

Now there was a question.

"Apparently it's a matter of public record," Hermione answered, chewing over her words. "Which is funny, because if his hiring was a matter of public record, then I probably should have heard about it before now. ...You know, like literally any time my Auror roommate came back from work for the past thirty-seven days. Especially since the aforementioned Auror roommate would be  _painfully_  aware of how totally and completely abhorrent I would find it."

Harry sucked in a deep breath.

Hermione continued. "And I  _know_  that there is no way that said Auror would let me find out at three o'clock in the afternoon on a Thursday in a cold, dirty, piss-covered back alley in Islington. No, no.  _Certainly_  not."

Silence hung between them, and Hermione could feel the guilt poking at her, prodding her, saying  _not Harry, not him_ , almost as soon as the words left her mouth, but she stood firm.

"I was told not to tell anyone," Harry said weakly, his voice still partially muffled.

"But it was  _public_  knowledge."

"Yes, well,  _I was_   _told not to tell anyone_. Part of the job, you know, and that pesky little business about my contract having secrecy vows. One slip, and I'm cursed. Quite literally."

Hermione scowled. "Those vows wouldn't have applied in this case."

"I didn't know that! It's not exactly like they told me!"

"Oh, so that makes it okay? That makes this whole situation okay?"

"Dammit, of course not! You think I'm happy about this?" he cried, sounding so abjectly offended and bewildered at the very thought that his comment stole a harsh laugh from her.

Of course he wasn't happy. This was  _Harry_. Not in a million years would she ever think he was a friend of Draco Malfoy, so it wasn't like he was trying to protect him.

No, it was just a disgusting situation all around, and everyone was being handed the shit end of the stick — no one more so than the non-magical members of Britain.

With effort, Hermione pushed herself off the wall.

They had fought, and they had sacrificed, and they had  _won_.

There was a script to be followed. Their lives were supposed to begin, and the world was supposed to be different, and things were supposed to be fair. They'd earned that much.

Sighing, she pushed the door closed, unhitched the latch, then opened the door in one continuous motion.

Her flatmate stared at her, looking disheveled. His hair was a mess, and his large winter puffer jacket was unzipped. The damning parchment dangled limply in his left hand, the bag of takeaway dangled limply in his right. Concern, indignation, and guilt flickered across his face in frustrating tandem.

"No, Harry," Hermione said, crossing her arms, not moving from the open doorway. "I don't think you're happy. Your hands were tied. I just wish you— wish  _someone_  would have told me. I could have joined or..." she paused. "Well, I could have  _done_  something."

Harry frowned at her. With purposeful movements, he set the bag of takeaway on the floor against the living room wall, moved forward, and enveloped her in a firm, nearly unyielding hug.

She exhaled into him, the shoulder of his puffy ski jacket a cool and welcome pillow against her cheek. He smelled strongly of aftershave, as he usually did when he attempted to mask a skipped shower.

 _Idiot_.

"I'm still mad at you," she said as she pressed her face further into his jacket, closing her eyes and letting herself sink into the familiar padding for just a moment. "I don't want you to think that just because I'm hugging you, I'm not."

Harry laughed and moved a hand to stroke through her hair. "That's okay," he said. "I figured as much. You're practically my sister — circumstances aside, you being mad at me isn't really new."

"Oh, ha  _ha_ ," she said, eyes a little watery. When Harry's strokes continued, morphing into awkward, heavy pats, much like Teddy used to give Crookshanks, Hermione swatted his hand away and took a step back, discreetly wiping at her eyes, grabbing the parchment, and walking back to collapse on the couch.

Harry picked up the takeaway and followed her into the living room. "Let's eat, yeah? I'm starved."

"It's funny that you think we're done talking about this."

"Oh, I know we're not. You can interrogate me over spring rolls."

With a few quick words, he quietly summoned bowls and cutlery from the kitchen with his wand, and then began dishing out food into two large bowls and one small plastic one.

Hermione shook her head. For all his attention to detail in some aspects of life, Harry could be so remarkably thick sometimes.

He deposited a bowl of curry tofu on the coffee table in front of Hermione, then sat on the floor in front of the fireplace with two bowls of chicken Phat si-io. He brushed thick black fringe out of his eyes and scanned the apartment.

He looked up at Hermione from the floor. "Teddy's not here, is he?"

_There it is._

"No, Andromeda has him."

Harry opened his mouth, then, seemingly thinking better of it, closed it, shoulders slumping. Hermione felt his guilt as sure as it was her own.

"I'm sure you've put it together now, but Malfoy was our Obliviator this afternoon," she said lightly, trying her best to keep from sounding accusatory, though part of her felt the self-censorship unnecessary, since it kind of was his fault. At least partially.

"Merlin, Hermione. I'm sorry." Harry removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. "No wonder Malfoy was even more of an ass than usual this evening," he said. "God, this has been such a  _shit_  day."

"Tell me about it," Hermione agreed, picking up her bowl of curry and moving around tofu and snow peas with the prongs of her fork.

"Was Andromeda... ?"

Hermione shook her head. "She wasn't happy, had to cancel her plans, but she understood."

The curry smelled divine. The garlic, cardamom, and coconut milk thick and fragrant.

She placed her bowl on the coffee table.

Leaning back into the couch, knees drifting up to her chest, she lost herself in thought. Meanwhile, Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, scowling as he ate first his bowl of food, then what was supposed to be Teddy's. He ate so quickly he hardly swallowed. When he reached the bottom of the bowl, his scowl deepened, food still in his cheeks. He looked remarkably, unnervingly like Ron.

The moment lingered.

If Ginny were here, she would have just the right words.

Well, to be honest, if Ginny were here and not on a weeklong trip for work, this whole day would never have happened.

But Ginny wasn't getting back for another three days, and today  _had_  happened, and they needed to talk about it now.

"So," Hermione began, running her fingers through her hair, "how do we fix this?"

"Fix what?" Harry asked, finally swallowing the remains of his dinner with an audible gulp.

"Malfoy," she said slowly. "Getting him out of the department. Because I've been doing some research the last two hours, and even without access to his transcripts, there are already some precedents that I think we can use to our advantage. Most relevant cases were in the Americas and France, but since Kingsley isn't going to be a sympathetic party, that doesn't really matter; we can go straight to the International Secrecy Committee. They have the ultimate say in this anyway."

She lifted a bundle of papers in her hands when she finished, nearly-almost-maybe smiling.

Harry stared at her, a strange expression on his face. "Hermione, that's not going to happen."

"Well, not easily, no, but I think we can do it if we just —"

"No, I mean that's not going to happen because we  _need_  him," Harry said with gentle earnestness. "He —" Harry paused, putting a hand over his eyes, looking pained. He appeared to think deeply for a moment. "He's still a miserable, selfish bastard, but the department is really hurting."

Hermione stiffened. "Oh."

"I know it's so far from ideal, Hermione, but he's — Merlin, I can't believe I'm saying this. He's actually competent at his job. More so than almost anyone else. He's assigned to my team, too, and with what's been going on... Kinglsey met with Tilly, and she says it'll take at least another year, maybe two, for a new hire to get where Malfoy is now, because his parents had him with a private tutor or something since he was small, but that's all assuming someone even applies for a job in the department. Most people, the ones that can ever even become competent enough in Legilimency, go the mind healing route. There's, uh... well, you know," he winced. "More money in it."

Hermione blinked. "So you're telling me you support Kingsley's decision?"

"No!" Harry burst out. "... Well, maybe? I - I don't know. I guess I'm just saying it's not cut and dry, Hermione."

"I see."

Harry shook his head and looked up. The ceiling creaked rhythmically, and Harry grimaced. Face pained, he pointed his wand upward, flicked his wrist, and wrestled the offending noise into silence.

While he was occupied, Hermione stood, indignant. She snatched up her bowl and Harry's two as well, stalking to the kitchen to clean up. Cautiously, Harry got up from the floor and followed her. The old linoleum countertops were the scratched off kind of spotless that only came from repeated, indiscriminate scourigifying. Like bleach, only rougher.

She wrapped her bowl with saran wrap, then put Harry's dishes in the sink.

"So you're okay?" Harry asked, hovering behind her in the doorway.

Hermione thought of Lockhart and Launceston and the boy from Blake's Hardware, and steeled her resolve.

"I'm going to be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so egregiously late, I know. I'm not going to offer excuses. I'll just say I have them, and they're not the worst as far as excuses go, but let's just move on, yeah?
> 
> Would love to hear your thoughts on any and everything. If you have questions or want to discuss anything further, give me a shout through a review or PM. There's a lot I'm trying to work through here, and I'd love to chat about it with literally anyone. (Well, except maybe that reviewer who called Hermione a filthy little bitch.)
> 
> Last but not least, I want to give a shout-out to tatianasletter, who sent me the nicest, most encouraging PM last week. TBH, it prompted me to get off my butt and post this chapter. This one's for you, T.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts, questions, and comments may be submitted to the Ministry for review. Responses will be given within 5-7 business days.
> 
> (No, but really, what do you think?)


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